I wrote this poem a year ago as we waited for my grandson to be born. Looking back, I realize it is a little hopeful....
A little girl waits
for a fresh, new
beginning.
Waves of pain flow
over her,
washing her clean.
She longs to separate
his body from hers
only to keep him forever close.
She longs to hold him
in her arms
and gaze at his
fresh, new face.
She readies herself
and
lays out his clean,
white clothes.
Clothes befitting of
a fresh, new person.
“He will match his
outfit”, she says.
As he emerges from
her body,
he will wipe the
slate clean.
He will be her bridge
over rivers of hurt,
her antidote to a
poisoned heart.
He will quell her
anger
and quiet her soul
She will emerge from
the waters,
with her youth dripping
from her.
No longer a little
girl, but a woman.
A fresh, new woman.
